


some thoughts linger while others vanish

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First Meetings, M/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2323073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After having a conversation with his roommate for the first time, Mycroft thought living on campus wouldn't be too bad. That thought lasted for a single minute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some thoughts linger while others vanish

Mycroft hadn’t wanted to live on campus, but Mummy had insisted.

“Mikey, I forbid you from using the helicopter. No, you’ll be staying at one of the Colleges.” And when Mummy made up her mind about something, she didn’t budge. Anything said after Mummy put her foot down made it worse.

“Why can’t the chauffeur drive me? It’s just a two hour drive each way.”

“Just for that, you’ll be sharing a room with someone else.” With a sweet smile and a glint in her eye, she had added, “It’ll be good for you to make friends, and you can come back on weekends.” And with the same sweet smile, she had assisted him with his move into his new residence, and gave him a kiss on the cheek and a wave goodbye.

His roommate wasn’t due to move in until the last possible day, so Mycroft spent the evening before and the morning of fidgeting and tidying his belongings. It would be his first time cohabitating with someone other than a family member and he would be sharing his space and time with this person for the rest of the year, so Mycroft was determined to make a good impression. 

He was fussing with his already straightened bed sheets when the door swung wide open and a boy stumbled in, hands full with his belongings. Mycroft took a seat at his desk and watched silently, intrigued as the boy dropped his bags to the ground, then fell into the chair next to Mycroft’s with a loud sigh of relief.

“Lestrade,” he said, hand outstretched. His eyes were bright and his boyish, lopsided grin distracting. Terribly distracting. “Greg Lestrade.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft replied, taking the proffered hand. It was slightly clammy and warm, presumably from clutching the bags’ handles for a prolonged period of time, but boasted a firm, confident grip that may have lingered for longer than was necessary.

“Mycroft! Odd name, but at least I won’t forget it.” Greg’s smile waned and he furrowed his brows. Mycroft tucked away the pensive expression into a quiet, jealously guarded corner of his mind, like he had done with the boyish grin. “My full name’s actually Gregory.”

“Gregory,” he repeated. Mycroft decided he liked it better than Greg almost immediately.

“My mum calls me that when she’s angry—”

“—oh, I’m sorry.”

“No!” Greg jerked forward in his seat, close enough for their knees to touch. Close enough for Mycroft to see the lighter flecks of brown, almost golden in the sunlight, in Greg’s eyes. “It’s fine. It sounds… nice when you say it. Makes me sound like a proper gentleman, and not like I’ve just been scolded because of a brand new grass stain on my uniform.”

“Does that happen often?” And as an afterthought, Mycroft added, “Gregory.” 

Greg beamed. Unbidden, the corners of Mycroft’s mouth tipped upwards too, and he couldn’t find it in himself to school his face into his usual neutral expression. “Yeah. Yeah it does. I play a bit of football. What about you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No football or sports. Not really my... area.”

“Any… hm, instruments, then?”

“I do play the piano.”

“Yeah, thought so.” Greg reached for his hand, pausing momentarily to meet his gaze and ask, “May I?”

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat. He nodded.

“I noticed this earlier,” Greg murmured, turning Mycroft’s hand over so the tips of his fingers rested on Greg’s palm, “but your fingers are really long. Slender, too. Perfect hands for the piano.” The rough pad of Greg’s thumb brushed lightly over smooth skin and hard joints. The words—spoken, unspoken—hung in the air between them until Greg spoke up once more. “They’re bloody cold, though.”

Mycroft yanked his hand back. His hands were cold, but the skin Greg had touched was still warm. “Do you—” He frowned at the break in his voice, clearing his voice before trying again. “Do you play any instruments?”

“Not with fingers like these, no. Tried the guitar for a bit, but broke a couple of fingers one too many times because of football,” Greg explained with a wry smile. Mycroft watched him clench and unclench his left hand, observing how his index and middle finger failed to bend completely.

“How… unfortunate,” he said, unable to keep the wince of his tone as he imagined the circumstances that led to the multiple injuries.

“It’s all good now. I like music, but I’m much better at football. At least that’s what my friends said whenever I practised. Don’t blame them.” Greg barked out a laugh and then looked down at his rumpled clothing. “More importantly, though… I need a shower and I’m starving. Unpacking can probably wait until later. When's lunch?”

“In an hour’s time.”

“Oh good. Enough time for a shower and then we can head out for lunch together.”

“Together?”

“Yeah?” Greg stood up after rummaging through his bags, towel in one hand and soap and shampoo in the other hand. He had a forlorn look on his face, and Mycroft dutifully tucked that image away too, hoping he'd never be the cause of it again. “Unless you'd rather not...”

“No! I didn't think—no, going together sounds… nice.”

And really, it did. The number of people who had willingly offered to have lunch together with him in the past was naught. So this was what Mummy had wanted for him when she hoped he would make friends.

“Great! Now if you’ll excuse me…” The wide smile was back again, and then Greg disappeared into their shared bathroom, a merry tune filtering through the closed door.

Alone once more, Mycroft allowed a small smile to cross his face and several long moments of consideration. He replayed the conversation over and over in his mind, compartmentalising information, cataloguing expressions, lingering over the feel of Gregory’s calloused palm against his fingertips, the brilliance of Gregory’s smile, the lilt of Gregory’s voice, and the ease and interest with which Gregory asked questions and listened for answers.

That wasn’t too bad. _Gregory_ wasn’t too bad. And perhaps living on campus wouldn’t be too bad either, Mycroft thought. A thought that lasted for a single minute before it fell to pieces at the sight of Greg striding out of the bathroom, towel slung loosely around his hips. Stray droplets of water were scattered across his sinewy physique.

Mycroft’s mouth went dry.

No, living on campus wouldn’t be _bad;_ it would be utter hell—a cruel test of self-control.

 


End file.
